


The Weight of a Kiss

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables (Dallas 2014)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Domesticity, First Kiss, First touches, Javert Lives, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 19:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10315013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: It doesn't happen the first night Javert stays over. It doesn't happen the second either.But somehow, days turn to weeks, and weeks to months, and it's become common enough that Javert visits and they have dinner and watch a movie together that Valjean's stopped getting sweaty palms at the sight of Javert's car in front of his house, or the unexpected sound of another man moving through his rooms.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompts _domesticity, trust, kiss, voyeurism_.

It doesn't happen the first night Javert stays over. It doesn't happen the second either.

But somehow, days turn to weeks, and weeks to months, and it's become common enough that Javert visits and they have dinner and watch a movie together that Valjean's stopped getting sweaty palms at the sight of Javert's car in front of his house, or the unexpected sound of another man moving through his rooms.

Javert, to be fair to him, has never asked for anything. Most of the time, he seems happy enough to sit there on the couch next to Valjean.

Once or twice, he's wrapped his arm around his shoulders.

It's... nice when that happens. It's been happening more often lately. Valjean really doesn't mind the touch.

He didn't mind either when Javert kissed him the first time, there on his couch. It's weird to think of kissing Javert, but the reality of it is quite nice. Javert's nervous, Valjean knows him well enough by now to feel that in the twitching of his fingers and the way he moves his shoulders, but that's okay, because Valjean is nervous too.

But it's nice. Javert's lips against his own, the embrace of his arm, the comfortable couch, the late evening light.

Today, Javert put his hand on his thigh, and Valjean didn't mind that either. He's still thinking of it now, when he's alone in his bed—thinking of the size of Javert's hand, the way it rubbed gently, the way warmth bloomed. 

That warmth is still there, even now. Valjean turns in his bed with half a groan of embarrassment, his face flushed as his body reacts to the memory. He hasn't had such problems in decades. Trust Javert to stir things in him he thought long since lost, like so many things which other people take for granted.

He can't sleep. The night is warm, his window is open, and the air smells of flowers and darkness. In the gloom, he turns again, staring at the wall, exasperated and amused by the way Javert seems to have turned his body against him. He's too old to feel like this. He's not a teenager—even when he was a teenager, nights of wonder and longing were as far out of his reach as the freedom beyond barred windows.

But he's free now. He's free to do as he pleases, to go where he wants to go, and his former jailer is content to watch crappy movies on his couch and kiss him tentatively with a mouth that is surprisingly soft and careful.

Again Valjean turns. Outside, the moon is shining. He listens to the sounds of the night, imagines Javert all alone in the bed in the guest room.

Is Javert asleep? Or is Javert awake as well, twisting and turning and thinking of his hand on Valjean's thigh, of what he could have asked for, but what he was too considerate to take?

Valjean flushes, feeling the way his body stirs, his cock pressing against his boxers. At last, he gets up, confused by the way Javert keeps changing everything. How can this be what Javert wants? It makes no sense. But if it wasn't what Javert wanted, Javert wouldn't keep coming back day after day to spend the evening with him.

Slowly, Valjean opens his door and steps out into the corridor. The house is silent. He bought it long ago for the large garden and the quietness of the area. There are neighbors, but they don't see much of each other. It's how Valjean liked it.

But now... now, sometimes, when the house is silent and empty during the day, he finds himself looking forward to the moment when his door bell will ring, and when his heart won't start racing with terror, when he won't hide behind curtains and pretend that no one is home, but when he'll open the door with a smile on his lips, eager to invite a man inside who has, strange as it is, become a friend.

The corridor is empty, lit by the sparse moonlight that falls in through the large windows. Slowly, Valjean walks forward, barefoot, until he comes to the door to Javert's room. There he stops and waits.

Is Javert awake too? Is he waiting for him?

Nonsense, he tells himself, though his heart is starting to race. It's late. Javert is fast asleep, completely unaware of the turmoil his gentle touches cause in Valjean even long after they retire to their rooms.

Valjean licks his lips. Slowly, pulled by a force he doesn't quite have a name for, he reaches out for the door handle. He only wants to check up on Javert, he tells himself, his heart beating in his throat. Once he sees that Javert is asleep, as Valjean should be, it will be easier to go back to his own bed and fall asleep.

Silently, he opens the door a crack. Javert's room is lit by moonlight. The moon is bright tonight. When Valjean peeks through the small opening, it's enough illumination to make out the bed and Javert asleep on it.

Only that Javert isn't asleep.

His throat dry, Valjean finds himself rooted to the spot.

Javert isn't asleep. Javert's on the bed, eyes closed, relaxed and completely unaware that he's being watched. His hand is between his legs, moving slowly, the gesture quite unmistakable.

Valjean feels heat rush to his face, but he cannot tear his eyes away. His own body throbs in answer to the rhythm of Javert's hand, and he keeps staring, his chest too tight to breathe, captivated by the sight.

He's never seen Javert look so vulnerable before. Valjean's ashamed all of a sudden. There's something too intimate and personal about the sight. He knows it's wrong. There's all sorts of names for what he's doing right now. But even so, he just can't look away.

A moment later, Javert shudders, relaxing on the bed, his head turned away from the door. As reality comes rushing back in, Valjean at last finds the strength to silently close the door. His fingers tremble. He doesn't dare to breathe until he has made it back into his own room, his heart beating so fast and loud that he's sure Javert must be able to hear it.

But everything is silent. When he slips back beneath the covers, ashamed of what he's done, the house remains silent. Javert doesn't come storming into his bedroom to confront him.

Javert's probably asleep already, relaxed and satiated. Valjean flushes again as he thinks of Javert spread out on the bed, warm and sleepy, the large hand that rested on Valjean's thigh an hour ago now sticky with Javert's release.

The thought brings new embarrassment, and also an answering, demanding ache between his legs. Nevertheless, it takes long minutes until he slowly slides a hand downwards, shame flaring up once more as his fingers close around his erection with Javert only one room away. Even now, the image of Javert all relaxed and vulnerable doesn't leave.

***

The next time Javert visits, it's a Sunday, Javert brings a movie, there's popcorn, and when Javert kisses him, he tastes of butter. It's good. It's really, really good, this thing he has, and Valjean feels the shame deepen as he thinks of his secret. Javert probably wouldn't even mind, he tells himself—still, it's not right, and he has no excuse for what he's done.

They share a bottle of wine, and when they go to bed and Valjean says good night, Javert traps him against the wall and then slowly leans in once more. Only Javert doesn't trap him, not really. There's enough space Valjean could just turn away; Javert's always good about that, he has noticed.

Valjean doesn't know what to do with his hands. He's smiling at his own helplessness—he's really not a teenager anymore, Javert doesn't deserve this awkwardness when he's been trying so earnestly—but then Javert's mouth is on his. Valjean's stomach is warm from the wine. He sighs against Javert's lips, and then Javert's tongue slides into his mouth.

It's a little shocking, but the contact is so intimate and overwhelming that a jolt of heat runs straight between his legs. Valjean makes a soft, choked moan, his heart skipping a beat at the way Javert's tongue slides against his own. It's slick and hot and he can think of nothing but Javert. Then Javert moves back a little, breathless, his cheeks flushed as well as he smiles at Valjean.

“Good night,” Javert murmurs, and turns to enter his room.

Mechanically, Valjean walks into his own bedroom, getting ready for bed with his lips still tingling. He can't think of anything but the way Javert felt against him. This time, when he at last slides beneath the cool covers, he's nearly vibrating with restlessness, his legs twitching and his body refusing to wind down for sleep. His cock is hard. He resists the urge to touch himself; instead, he touches his lips, disbelieving, overwhelmed, wishing for a moment that Javert had asked him to come with him into his bedroom.

He can't sleep. His heart is racing, his body throbbing with arousal, and his eyes keep sliding towards his door, half hoping that Javert, too, cannot sleep, and finally dares to come to him at night.

But the door doesn't open. Valjean listens. The house is quiet.

Is Javert already asleep? Is it possible that Javert doesn't feel this relentless onslaught of emotions?

Valjean knows all the many reasons for why this is a bad idea, but after ten minutes pass without a sound from Javert, with his own body thrumming with nervous energy, he gets up, acting quickly before he has time to think about what he's doing.

The corridor's empty and dark. It's not until he stops in front of Javert's door that he notices that Javert has failed to close it.

It's an accident, he tells himself. He's flushed, his shame at having returned here nearly outweighing the confusing arousal that still hasn't died down. Javert has no idea what Valjean did; Javert was tired and went straight to bed and didn't close the door correctly, it doesn't mean anything—

His thoughts break off when he catches sight of Javert through the small opening. Javert's stretched out on the bed. He's turned towards where Valjean is standing outside the door. His eyes are closed, but his boxers are pushed down. As Valjean watches, his pulse echoing loudly in his ears, Javert's slowly stroking himself.

It's too dark to make out details, but the motion is enough to make heat rush to Valjean's face, his heart beating so quickly that for a moment, it's impossible to breathe. He can't turn away, as much as he knows he should. He watches, even as Javert's hand speeds up a little. Javert's chest is rising and falling rapidly. Valjean's lost all track of time. He's still standing there when Javert tenses, a soft, satisfied moan on his lips, his hand still stroking although the motion is more languid now.

Illuminated only by the moonlight, Javert's chest is very pale. Valjean remembers the heat of his tongue, and for a moment he thinks of the weight of that arm around him.

Then, shocked and overwhelmed, Valjean draws back, silently making his way into his own bed. This time, it takes another hour of tossing and turning until he finally forgets his shame and touches himself.

***

It's Tuesday, and Javert's back again already. Valjean's flustered, even though Javert's brought pizza, they've opened two bottles of beer, and Javert's put his hand on his thigh again as they watch the game.

Javert's stroking him, and Valjean's body seems to enjoy the sensation. Javert doesn't take his hand away—or move his hand upwards, even though halfway through the game, Valjean's awkwardly clinging to his empty bottle, an obvious bulge tenting his trousers.

It's not until the game is over and they've turned the TV off and Valjean can't even remember who won that Javert kisses him. It's nice, more than nice. This time Valjean isn't even shocked when Javert's tongue slides into his mouth, even though he makes an embarrassed, overwhelmed noise and reaches out to grab hold of Javert's shoulder.

This time, Javert doesn't move back. A minute later, Valjean finds himself pressed into the couch, still kissing Javert, dizzy and aroused. And even now, Javert's careful with his hands, one on his thigh, the other at his shoulder. As Valjean moans into Javert's mouth, he catches himself hoping that Javert's hand will slide upward.

They break apart minutes later, both flushed and breathless. Javert's smiling even though Valjean can see the way his jeans stretch over his erection. Javert runs a finger down his cheek, leans in for another soft kiss, and then he murmurs, “I'll take care of the dishes.”

It's the most frustrating thing. When Valjean's finally in his own bed an hour later, Javert in the guest room across the corridor, his cock still throbs, remembering Javert's hand right there on his thigh, remembering how easy it would have been for Javert to touch.

This time, with his heart still pounding in his chest and his body filled with adrenaline, he tells himself he won't do it again—it was an accident before, but he won't go and spy on Javert again. The next time Javert is over, maybe he'll find the courage to tell him he doesn't need to sleep in the guest room.

That's how he should have done it earlier. That's the adult way of handling things. But now, with his heart racing and his body restless with the memory of Javert's touch, it's too late.

Next time. Next time, if he can just remember to talk, he can have it all: the heat of Javert's kisses, the comfort of his body sharing his bed, perhaps even the touch of his hands where he wants it the most. He'll ask, like an adult, and Javert, who has been so good, who clearly wants this even more than Valjean does, Javert will touch him and be gentle. In turn Valjean will try to make up for the way he has betrayed Javert, when Javert's been so good, so considerate, when Javert deserves a reward, and not someone like Valjean who has to be gentled into kissing like a skittish horse, and who repays Javert's consideration by spying on him.

It's dark outside; there's less moonlight tonight. It's stormy, the sky covered by clouds. As he listens to the sound of the wind, Valjean believes that he hears a sound. He half sits up, old reflexes immediately kicking into gear.

A heartbeat later, he realizes there's no need for that old fear: tonight, the police is asleep in his spare bedroom. He doesn't have to run. He'll never have to run again.

Still, he's sure he's heard a sound. After a few more minutes pass, he silently gets up. He's embarrassed—but this time, there's a reason, or so he tells himself. He'll just check that everything is okay. It was probably just the wind outside.

The corridor is dark and silent. There's just enough light left that he can make out the shadows of trees outside, branches moving in the wind.

Maybe a branch fell down somewhere. That would explain the sound. Anyway, the house is quiet, and there's no reason to disturb Javert.

Half relieved that this time, he's managed to resist temptation, Valjean turns to return to his bed—only to find himself frozen with surprise when he realizes that across the corridor, the door to Javert's bedroom stands wide open.

His mouth dry, he takes a step closer. Has something happened to Javert? Or has the storm somehow caused the door to open? Perhaps the window wasn't correctly shut. There's lots of explanations, he tells himself as he slowly inches closer, but still, for a moment he's overwhelmed by the fear that Javert knows.

Javert's room is silent. The window is closed. Everything is as it should be.

And there, on the bed, nearly impossible to make out in the darkness, Javert is resting. This time, Valjean can't make out a motion. He stands rooted to the ground, strangely insecure—he should leave, he knows that, but should he close the door?

Then the clouds outside move, and the gloom recedes a little. When he looks at Javert again, he sees him stir. Javert is looking at him—Javert, Valjean realizes with sudden shock, has been awake all along.

In the darkness, Javert shifts. Then he pulls back the covers and holds out a hand.

“Come to bed, Valjean,” he says, his voice gentle.

This time, when they kiss, it is Valjean who dares to rest his hand on Javert's thigh.


End file.
